October 4, 2005
The Man Who Took Hip-Hop's Baby Pictures
By DAVID GONZALEZ
Joe Conzo Jr. clocked his 15 minutes of fame one-sixtieth of a second at a time. As a teenager, his friends in the Cold Crush Brothers invited him to tag along to photograph the pioneering days of hip-hop. His family's connections in community activism and Latin music led him to chronicle the giants of salsa and the South Bronx.
Those thousands of images almost vanished, lost except in the memories of the lucky few who witnessed many of the fabled rap battles that took place at school gymnasiums and neighborhood discos.
But Joe Conzo Jr. a k a Joey Kane, lives on, and his work does, too. His mother, Lorraine Montenegro, saved his negatives when he could barely save himself from drugs. Thanks to her, and some friendships from the days when Puma sneakers were the epitome of street fashion, Mr. Conzo's photographic record of the Bronx in the 1970's and 1980's is now being hailed as a unique contribution to that era's history.
Despite whatever personal crises he was fighting - and despite the devastation that was sweeping over the borough during those years - his photographs exude a tender, almost innocent love for the music and streets of his boyhood. During the days of furry Kangol caps, fat laces and white-gloved b-boys, he was never far, snapping away in the wings while rappers dueled with tongue-twisting rhymes set to dizzying breakbeats.
He was there during protests against the 1981 movie "Fort Apache, the Bronx," catching Paul Newman glaring at him while a production assistant tried to block the shot. And he was there when Latin music greats like Tito Puente and Machito relaxed over drinks at a farewell party for their friend and fellow musician Charlie Palmieri.
"I've been blessed," he said. "I always knew I had a treasure trove of photos. Now I'm being called the first hip-hop photographer. I'm not interested in titles, but yeah, I was there at the beginning."
Mr. Conzo might have been fated to do this. His grandmother was Evelina Antonetty, a legendary activist for better schools and housing who was known as "the Hell Lady of the Bronx." His father - who was divorced from his mother - was such a close friend of Tito Puente's that he came to be considered the leading expert on the man and his music.
Mr. Conzo took up photography in elementary school, he said, at the urging of his stepfather, Michael Kane. He found out he had a knack for it. He carried his camera to South Bronx High School, where in 1978 he befriended several members of a rap crew that would become famous as the Cold Crush Brothers.
"I was into disco, I didn't know anything about hip-hop." Mr. Conzo said. "But I was invited to take pictures of the Cold Crush, and one thing led to another. We played the T-Connection, Disco Fever, the Ecstasy Garage, the Hoe Avenue Boys Club, St. Martin's."
That last venue was not the Caribbean island, but a Catholic school gym close to the homes of several members of the group.
"I was part of the group," he said. "The Cold Crush were the first to have a personal photographer. They were the first to have a tape master recording their music at all the shows. They were the first to use fog machines."
Charlie Chase, the group's D.J. (along with Tony Tone), said nobody knew at the time this would make serious money - for other people.
"Joey was a friend who had a camera and took pictures of the good times," he said. "We did this because we wanted to have fun and get girls. But if it wasn't for the pictures, nobody would know we existed. And nobody would believe we did what we did."
Among the photographs Mr. Conzo took were several from the 1981 Harlem World battle against the Fantastic Five, where the Cold Crush Brothers stepped out gangster-style in suits and fedoras, toting plastic guns. To this day, aficionados - including some millionaire rappers who weren't even old enough to stay up for, much less attend, the show - speak in awed tones about the face-off.
Drugs had also been a recreational thing for Mr. Conzo, but by 1984, soon after his grandmother died, they were the only thing. He sold his cameras. His mother saved his negatives.
"I worked so hard raising five kids, that I was not about to let heroin take one of them," Ms. Montenegro said. "I guess it was more spiritual than anything else, so I kept whatever else of him I could. I just collected this stuff and kept it there."
That stuff - in shoe boxes and closets - stayed stashed during several attempts at going clean, including a stint in the Army. By 1991, however, it all fell apart: Mr. Conzo was arrested for stealing food.
"Here I was, I came from a good family, a political family," he said. "I never thought I was an addict because I always had a job. And here I am, a junkie skell in jail."
He was ordered to go into treatment, where he learned how to be an emergency medical technician. When he got out, he landed a job with the city, a job he still has, working a Fire Department ambulance in the very neighborhood where he used to run around with the Cold Crush Brothers. In time he learned that his mother had saved his negatives. He went out and started taking pictures again, too.
About two years ago, a friend of his from the Cold Crush Brothers introduced him to Johan Kugelberg, a European collector interested in hip-hop's early days, who arranged for a London exhibit earlier this year.
"Nobody has seen photographs like this from the early jams," Mr. Conzo said. His father is as proud as he is surprised.
"Here was this kid who used to be my little tail," his father said. "He met all these guys. You name it, he got them: Tito, Celia, Willie Bobo, Rita Moreno. Little did I know this kid was taking pictures of rap in the Bronx. I'm so proud of him, it ain't funny."
His father has the kind of no-nonsense gravelly voice that underscores the "ain't funny" part.
"Joey was there when this sucker was born," he said. "Anybody can have pictures of old celebrities. You got to say, damn, that's a mind-blower that he saw this thing go from nothing to what it is today."
His son speaks with a quiet warmth about how this all turned out. Given his past, he is on bonus time right now. And even though he shoots for a London-based magazine, he has no plans to quit his city job. Nor does he plan to settle scores with those people who used his old photos in books and movies without so much as a credit.
"I'm 42; my days of chasing anything are over," he said. "Call it cocky. Call it humble. That's how I am. This, to me, is gravy."
It is, he said, not just where he's from, but where he's at.
"When I'm gone from this world, I hope my grandchildren can go to a library and see Joe Conzo images," he said. "I am carrying on in the legacy of my grandmother, photographing music and the community. I don't think I'll get rich off this. But having this legacy is worth more than money."
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